


on tenderness; a guide to taking better care of yourself

by earlgrey_milktea



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Gentleness, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Canon, Recovery, it's love babey!, less cats than anticipated, more kissing than anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: Neil is a finger on a trigger, pedal to metal, a breath away from launching himself off the edge of the roof at all times. He’s a rabbit heart, always ready to run off at a second’s notice—except when he’s looking at Andrew like that.a series of moments on andrew learning to be gentle with himself; or, alternatively, andrew waxing poetic about one neil josten and realizing that his life maybe isn't so bad after all.





	on tenderness; a guide to taking better care of yourself

**Author's Note:**

> basically [this tweet](https://twitter.com/puddingcatbae/status/1099044256633614336) sums up my entire mood @ this fic
> 
> no warnings that i can think of because the focus of this fic is on healing and taking care, but if something comes up, pls don't hesitate to let me know!

 

The last tub of ice cream is stuffed at the very back of the goddamn freezer.

Technically, there was an unopened carton of neapolitan ice cream and half a tub of mint chocolate chip right in front of his face but tonight was a Bad Night and Andrew is getting to that tub of double chocolate fudge or else somebody is going to die. Probably himself, but it’s debatable.

Andrew growls at the sigh of mild disappointment that echoes through his head—it sounds like Bee. He hasn’t had the urge to kill himself for real for a long while now but he supposes it says something when he can’t even make terribly morbid jokes in his own head now.

Pushing up on his toes, he shoves his arm deep into the freezer one more time. A bag of frozen potstickers nosedives to the floor. He curses. The noise is over as soon as it began but it’s nearly three in the morning and all of the inhabitants of this apartment are extremely light sleepers. He steps back from the fridge, not bothering to close the door. Slowly, he bends down to pick up the stupid pack of potstickers—definitely not his purchase, though he knows he’ll most likely end up the one to fry them before they expire—and by the time he straightens, Neil is yawning in the kitchen doorway.

“‘Drew? What’s going on?”

Andrew stares across the kitchen island at him. The sweater he’s wearing is too big, a faded worn thing, a Christmas present or something from one of their—Andrew shudders internally, sighs eternally—friends, doing nothing to cover up his lethal collarbones, teasing at the scars mapped across Neil’s skin. His hair is a tousled mess, falling into his face almost artfully and sticking up on one side stupidly. Only one edge of his boxer shorts peek out from underneath the ugly sweater. Neil is rubbing at his eye sleepily.

Andrew hates him.

The potstickers crackle in his hands. With controlled calm, Andrew loosens his grip and turns to shove the bag back into the freezer. He throws a glance over his shoulder.

“Come here, Josten.”

Neil wanders over obediently, without question like always. For someone with such a vendetta against dying, he has ridiculously abysmal self-preservation skills.

Andrew points at the back of the freezer. “Get me the ice cream.”

Neil peers in, and then blinks at him. Andrew stares back, daring him to comment. Shrugging, Neil reaches in to retrieve the elusive tub. He’s also on his toes, Andrew notes with grudging satisfaction. He takes the tub wordlessly and turns away to find a spoon. He perches on a bar stool by the kitchen island and tugs open the lid, ignoring Neil still standing by the fridge.

“Hey,” Neil says, because he’s an idiot who looks at Andrew  _ like that _  even when he’s still soft with sleep and it’s not his nightmares keeping him up this time but he’ll fight these demons if he has to because there’s an  _ understanding  _ between them because Andrew, against better judgement, would offer the same. Has offered the same.

Yeah, they’re both idiots.

Andrew doesn’t answer, so Neil goes ahead and continues, “Do you want me to stay up with you?”

He bites the spoon hard enough that his teeth aches. Fuck Neil for keeping his distance and fuck Neil for asking questions like that—always giving Andrew space to back out if he needs to, always waiting for Andrew instead of assuming. Neil is a finger on a trigger, pedal to metal, a breath away from launching himself off the edge of the roof at all times. He’s a rabbit heart, always ready to run off at a second’s notice—except when he’s looking at Andrew like that. Like Andrew is some sort of anchor to his wavering rowboat caught in the eye of the storm, like Andrew has enough of a say to make him stay.

Andrew hates him so much, so violently.

Scooping another spoonful of double fudge into his mouth, Andrew mutters, “Do what you want.”

They end up on the couch with only the lamp on. Neil perches on the far end, keeping his hands to himself. Andrew stabs his spoon into his ice cream and pretends not to feel the slight warmth that always flares when he notices Neil respecting his boundaries. He doesn’t need to be grateful for some human fucking decency. Even if, for once, he didn’t have to fight for it with broken teeth and bloodied claws.

Neither of them go back to bed until Neil’s alarm goes off and there’s only half a tub of double fudge ice cream left. He doesn’t change for his morning run, and he doesn’t follow Andrew into the guest room. He taps on the doorway of the bedroom before they separate to catch some much-needed sleep.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, breaking the silence of the last two hours. A promise, a certainty.

“Go to bed,” Andrew says back. He curls up in the darkness of the guest room and doesn’t dream.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

Persistence is a virtue Andrew is highly familiar with. The persistence of this cough, however, is something Andrew could do without.

He balls up another tissue and chucks it towards the trash can he’d dragged over some point yesterday. Not close enough. He watches the tissue bounce off the mountain of used tissues and land pathetically on the floor. He feels about the same.

The last glass of orange juice is gone, as is the mug of tea he’d made after. An empty jug of water sits beside it. Andrew squints at the little line up of  _ fuck this cold _  on the coffee table and sighs. He needs to pee now, but that involves digging himself out of the blanket burrito he’s formed on the couch.

When he comes back from a tedious battle of not keeling over in the bathroom, there’s a new text waiting for him. It’s Aaron, terse and succinct as always, a list of instructions on how to kick this cold in the ass with minimal medication.

_ why _ , Andrew texts back, because he’s been staring blankly at old crime show reruns for the better part of the day and avoiding Neil’s messages for the better part of the week because the media has it right sometimes: they are two stubborn assholes who forget how sharp their own claws are and how susceptible to reopening old wounds each other is.

**[aaron]:** neil told nicky that u might be sick

**[me]:** how the fuck would he know

**[aaron]:** how tf would i know

**[aaron]:** fix urself and then fix ur relationship or else nicky’s going to fly over to fix it for u

**[me]:** fuck off

**[aaron]:** gladly

**[aaron]:** eat something before u pass out

Andrew tosses his phone towards the far end of the couch. It slides off the cushion and lands somewhere on the carpet. He stares at it. There’s a metaphor here somewhere.

It takes him another hour and a half to summon enough energy to drag himself to the kitchen. He heats up some soup that tastes as bland as the cardboard box it came in. He dumps the pot in the sink and watches the water as it fills up. He lets it overflow for a minute, and then shuts off the tap to hear silence slip back into place.

He reaches for his phone and pulls up Neil’s contact. Wrapping himself up in the blankets again, Andrew closes his eyes and presses call.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

He makes it through practice and back into his street clothes before the migraine fully forms and rears its head. He slumps on the bench in his corner of the locker room, eyes closed and breathing slow in an attempt to find enough strength to stand up without falling over from dizziness.

“Hey, Minyard, you okay?”

He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “Just dandy,” he replies.

“You sure? ‘Cause you look kinda pale, which is saying something.”

Andrew makes the effort to crack one eye open enough to glare at Fukuda, one of the backliners, who is smiling in amusement at him. He still doesn’t know why this team continues to interact with him as if he’s pleasant to be around. He’s not. He makes it his business not to be.

“I’m fine,” he says, sighing internally. Somewhere, a disaster of a boy is probably sneezing; even after all these years, the cursed catchphrase still summons the ghost of a younger, unsteady Neil Josten. “Just a migraine.”

“Shit, dude, that sucks. You need a ride home or something? Miles and I are heading downtown so it’s no trouble swinging by your place.”

Andrew sighs out loud. “No,” he says simply.

“Alright. Take it easy, though, okay?”

Eyes closed again, he waves a hand lazily. The last of the team trickles out, leaving him in a silent locker room. It’s almost peaceful: the quiet hum of the lighting, the faint dripping sounds coming from the showers, the stink of sweat, the faintest whiff of that deodorant one of the strikers favours.

His head must really be hurting, for him to spout such poetry for something exy-related.

Leaning back against the wall, he considers the phone tucked safely in his bag at his feet. The only person he would call is on speed dial, and even if he wasn’t, Andrew could type in the memorized numbers in his sleep. He wouldn’t even need to open his eyes. It’s not like Neil has any plans. He was climbing back into bed when Andrew left that morning. He looked pretty comfortable with lazing about for someone who had been complaining nonstop about the forced vacation his coach had sent him on for the better part of the week. Andrew had spent the better part of the week reminding himself that strangling Neil is counterproductive considering all the grief he went through to keep the idiot alive.

Eventually, Andrew’s breathing exercises work enough to keep the migraine at bay. He breathes through his nose and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. The stadium isn’t that far from his apartment. If he crashes, at least he won’t have to attend his stupid brother’s stupid wedding next month. But if he really does crash, Andrew has no doubt that Neil would somehow find a way to breach the afterlife and defy all logic to haunt Andrew’s ghost, somehow.

He doesn’t crash. He drives slowly enough that even Kevin would be frustrated, and for once is thankful for the quiet suburban streets his apartment located on. His head is pounding in an erratic rhythm by the time the elevator doors close on him. He leans against the wall, concentrating on breathing. It’s an impossibly difficult task when he feels like throwing up if he opens his eyes.

The cons of having a perfect fucking memory.

It takes him three tries to unlock the door. He drops his bag in the doorway and kicks off his shoes. The nausea has receded a little, but the vertigo is kicking in.

Neil is lounging on the couch and talking on the phone. He turns when Andrew shuts the door and must have picked up on the pain behind Andrew’s blank expression because he immediately sits up.

Andrew makes it to the couch and drops down by Neil’s feet. He slumps against the armrest. The quiet of his apartment is familiar, the muted hum of the tv providing a welcoming white noise. Neil’s presence isn’t quite as common with their separate teams in separate states, but comforting just the same, a habit he picked up from college days and never learned to drop.

“—Yeah, no, I remember,” Neil is saying. “Listen, I gotta go, but we can grab dinner or something when I’m back in Chicago, okay?”

He hangs up and tosses the phone on the coffee table. He doesn’t move closer, but Andrew can feel his gaze resting on the side of Andrew’s face.

“Migraine?” he says quietly, not really a question so much as a confirmation.

Instead of answering, Andrew lets his eyes slip shut. “You didn't have to stop on my account.”

“It’s just Allison hounding me about meeting up since I blew her off last time.”

“A heinous crime, surely.”

“I blew her off for you, asshole.”

“Truly a tragedy.”

Neil snorts. “Do you want aspirin? Are you hungry?”

Andrew shakes his head. He blinks at Neil’s crossed legs for a moment. Shuffling over, he mumbles, “Yes or no?”

“Yes, Andrew. Whatever you need.”

He huffs, but his head hurts too much to argue. He tips himself over, slow enough to give Neil a chance to change his mind just in case, and lays his head on Neil’s thigh. They both pause for a moment. Andrew waits for the nausea to retreat. Neil shifts to readjust for his weight.

“Better?”

Andrew hums. A moment later, Neil’s fingers find their way into Andrew’s hair. He sighs quietly, turning to smush his face against the soft material of Neil’s sweatpants.  _ His _  sweatpants. Neil has an annoying tendency to steal Andrew’s clothes whenever he comes over. If Andrew has to replace his sweaters more often after housing Neil for a few days, neither of them ever acknowledges it out loud.

He falls asleep on the couch, curled up in Neil’s lap, with familiar fingers running through his hair. The migraine is nothing but a memory by the time their takeout dinner rings the doorbell.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

It’s a bad day.

He could feel the nightmare hovering at the edges of his mind the day before, but they’d had a game and the pressure of the press hanging around the hotel didn’t help. The rest of the team did their best to distract the cameras and give him space to dodge the most daring of reporters, but Andrew Minyard and Neil Josten have always been the star of the show on this side of the country while Kevin played the north side’s exy darling. Andrew had a contract to honour, though, so he stayed for the mandatory photographs and ditched Neil in front of the microphones as fast as he could.

Not fast enough, apparently. A couple of overzealous fans managed to sneak past the security and Andrew hasn’t felt the need to murder in a long time, but he hasn’t ever gotten rid of the need to hide knives on his person, either.

In the end, management let him escape to his room as discreetly as they can and he passes out so deeply he doesn’t even stir when Neil finally makes his way in.

He wakes up around four am and doesn’t fall back asleep. Their room comes with a tiny balcony, barely big enough for two people to stand on, so Andrew digs out the sad, beat up pack of cigarettes from the bottom of his bag and slips out the glass doors. The night air is cold against his bare skin. His hands shake when he lights up, from the goosebumps or from something else, he doesn’t want to know. He coughs after his first drag. He hasn’t smoked regularly for the past handful of years because he’s resigned himself to this fucking mess of a professional sport as well as a mesmerizing dumbass of an addict to said sport, who insisted on adopting not one but two stupid cats that liked to follow Andrew around the apartment for some goddamn reason. Sometimes, though, on restless nights like these, Andrew keeps a spare pack hidden in the corner. Habits and routine made for a real person, Neil muttered to him once.

He’s halfway through the cigarette when the door behind him slides open. Neil curses under his breath at the cold when he steps out. He’s holding two jackets under his arm. He hands one over, careful to avoid brushing their fingers together.

Andrew turns away. He shrugs on the jacket and ignores the slender pair of hands wrapping around the railing next to him.

“Coach says we can stay an extra day if we want,” Neil says. “A reward for winning last night.”

Andrew doesn’t answer. He studies the street lights flickering on in the distance.

“You know, for all the travelling I’ve done, I’ve never really gone sightseeing,” Neil continues, taking the silence in stride. “I’ve seen a lot of places and crossed through so many cities, but I don’t think I’ve ever taken a road trip either. I never understood why people wanted to be stuck in a car with someone for days on end because my experiences have always been drenched in fear and sleeplessness. But I’m guessing maybe it’s a proximity thing? Spending time with chosen company? A sense of purpose and direction?”

_ Comfort in knowing there’s a destination and a home to return to, _  Andrew doesn’t say. He flicks the ash off and inhales again.

“Do you think,” Neil starts, voice all soft and sleep-rough, “you might want to go on a road trip with me? After the season is done. We can get someone to cat-sit, find a map or maybe just pick a direction and go. Maybe we’ll head north. Or, I don’t know. West?”

Andrew thinks about hot sun above their heads, the timelessness of roadside diners, seagulls circling overhead. He thinks about ocean breeze and sand underneath his shoes. He thinks about Neil, painted in sunset colours, staring out at the water instead of waiting for ghosts that are better left behind.

“We can take our time,” Neil says.

He fills the silence with possible getaways and half-formed itineraries, cities and towns and tourist hot spots. Andrew lets himself imagine the places Neil’s voice sketches out. He lets himself imagine the two of them, wind in their hair, cruising down the freeway, chasing horizons. The two of them, falling into anonymous hotel beds, making instant ramen on nameless roadside motels, overwriting a runaway Nathaniel’s memories, creating new stories for a barely living Andrew Doe. It’s strange—he can almost see this future laid out before them and for once, he doesn’t want to dismiss it.

He thinks he might even want it.

The last of the smoke curls up into the brightening sky. They both trace the way it meanders through the air, aimless, lazy. Free. When the first of the sunlight starts to peek through the buildings, they shuffle back inside wordlessly. Andrew pauses, and Neil watches him, waiting.

Quietly, Andrew goes, “We’ll take your piece of shit car.”

Neil’s answering smile is a sunrise all his own.

When Andrew reaches out, Neil meets him halfway.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

The frying pan sizzles as the garlic and onions are tossed in. Andrew steps back slightly before throwing in the chilies and diced tomatoes. The aroma immediately hits his nose, and he sighs. This is familiar, even if distantly so. He and Aaron have never taken to spicy foods, but living under Nicky’s roof for those couple of years have opened his taste buds a little. He’ll never be able to replace Nicky’s recipes but it’s enough to cure the random cravings while his cousin is halfway across the world.

He’s frying the tortillas when Neil stumbles out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and yawning. He should still be on crutches but he’s never been good at listening to instructions and Andrew isn’t his nurse or his keeper. Neil pulls himself onto one of the bar stools.

“Smells good,” he says sleepily.

“Two minutes,” Andrew tells him. He plates the tortillas and starts on the eggs, handing Neil the bowl of salsa he’d made earlier. Neil immediately dips a finger into the red sauce and sticks it into his mouth. Andrew wrinkles his nose.

They eat on the island counter, comfortable silence filtering through the clinks of their forks. Late mornings like this are good. They’re lazy, easy to navigate, lack of urgency. Andrew wants to stay in these moments forever.

He looks at Neil’s profile. A single wayward lock of his hair is falling into his eyes, and he blows on it absentmindedly. There’s a spot of yolk at the corner of his lips. He looks stupid. He looks kissable.

Andrew drops his gaze back to the explosion of red and yellow on his plate. The exhaustion in Neil’s frame mirrors the weariness in Andrew's expression. They haven’t really held a full conversation since the highly illegal tackle that resulted in Neil’s injury, and consequently, the terrifying visit from Ichirou Moriyama. The meeting was anticlimactic for all the tension they had to sit through, but Neil is alive and recovering. And Andrew will do anything to keep it that way.

His fingers clench around his fork. He refuses to let those scum taint this moment between them. This apartment, this late breakfast made with his own two hands—this is safety. This is home. And no one else is allowed to ruin it.

“Andrew?”

He blinks. Neil is looking at him now. His eyes are blue, blue, blue. He still has yolk stuck to his face.

Andrew raises his hand, hovers in place without touching. “Yes or no?”

Neil smiles. “Yes,” he says, as if there was no other answer. Impossible, he is.

He brushes his thumb against the spot of yolk, picking it off cleanly. Neil leans into his touch, eyes falling to half-mast. There’s a small smile on his lips. When Andrew sticks his thumb in his mouth, Neil’s eyes follow, and it burns.

“You know,” Neil says, voice low and vowels curling in a tantalizing manner, “my doctor did say I should get a lot of bedrest.”

Andrew gives him an unimpressed look. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“I don’t know, is it working?”

“You’re terrible at flirting.”

“But you like it.”

Andrew pushes his face away. Neil goes easily, but his laughter brightens the room just as effortlessly. It doesn’t take long before Andrew is tugging him back in, fingers tilting his chin, eyes locking and holding, lips meeting lips. It tastes like salsa and eggs and something sweet, something that is entirely Neil. Andrew kisses him hard, elbow hooked over the counter and a hand grasping at Neil’s shirt. There are hands sliding into his hair, and he presses closer even as he pulls his lips away to lean their foreheads together. He looks at the boy before him, panting slightly, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

He wants to hold onto Neil so tightly he’ll leave permanent bruises on his soul. He wants to hold Neil so gently tears will spring from blue eyes because he’s never—they’ve never—known touch could be so light and painless and good. He wants to be good to Neil. He wants to be  _ soft _ , and isn’t that something, Andrew Joseph Minyard. He wants to give Neil all the happiness he deserves because god fucking damn it, he deserves it. This is the firecracker boy who sprung into Andrew’s life ready to detonate at a hair trigger and ended up lighting Andrew’s miserable skies on fire. This is the person who stood by him and looked past the snarling monster and promised to stay even when he shouldn’t. This is the one who came back to Andrew because he wants to, because Andrew wanted him to.

Andrew hates feeling things because it makes his chest hurt and his palms throb. He hates that Neil can make him feel so many things all at once. He hates that he doesn’t want this chemical reaction to ever stop.

“Okay?” Neil breathes into the space between their lips.

Andrew’s hand finds the back of his neck and settles like a key into a lock. “Okay,” he answers.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

“Hey,” Neil says, and Andrew blinks to find him crouching in front of the window sill to meet Andrew’s hazy eyes. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

Gaze sliding off Neil’s face to the cat perched snugly in Andrew’s lap, he shrugs. He doesn’t remember curling up in his favourite seat by the window, but he does remember bidding Neil goodnight and then never making it into the bedroom himself. There’s a fog in his mind. His skin itches even under Neil’s hoodie, the worn and ugly orange still the softest thing both of them owns.

“Andrew.” Neil waits until Andrew manages to meet his eyes again. “I’m going to get you something to drink, okay?”

With effort, Andrew dips his head into something resembling a nod. Dimly, he registers Neil’s footsteps heading towards the kitchen. He turns to look back out the window. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming down hard enough the streetlights look like faint candlelight in the wind. The heavy gray echoes the murky depths of his mind. His thoughts crawl slow, his limbs weigh too much. It takes all his effort to remember to breathe.

“Here,” Neil says, announcing his return. He holds out Andrew’s mug, the one with the grumpy cat and passive aggressive words. It’s hot cocoa. Andrew must really be out of it because Neil even took the time to put whipped cream in it.

Andrew takes it, avoiding Neil’s fingers, and sips slowly. The sweetness melts on his tongue and he closes his eyes briefly because if he’s tasting the sugar, it means he’s alive. The hot liquid burns the roof of his mouth but the pain is another reminder of the heartbeat and warm blood running through his veins. Bee always said to focus on the little things, the solid things, the things people take for granted because these are the things that prove he’s a human being. Not a monster. Not a forgotten mistake.

“Do you want to stay here, or do you want to sit on the couch?” Neil asks.

Andrew considers. His legs ache from being scrunched up against the window. The couch would be warmer. Neil would probably hunt down a blanket or two, and maybe the other cat. All he has to do is shuffle the few feet across the room.

He straightens his back and looks towards the couch. Neil nods, stepping back to give him space. Sir wakes up and scampers off Andrew’s legs when he moves.

Ten minutes later, he’s curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a cat in his lap and another scrunched up at his hip, his hot cocoa still warm in his hands. Neil is fiddling with the laptop on the other end of the couch, flicking through nature documentaries and muttering under his breath. He doesn’t try to engage Andrew in conversation. He just sits and stays, close enough to touch if Andrew wanted, when Andrew is ready. Andrew sips at his drink and doesn’t bother trying to untangle the mess of emotions pulsing in his ribcage.

They’re forty-eight minutes into learning about the deadly majestic creatures of the deep ocean when Andrew finally uncurls a hand from King’s fluffy fur. He reaches over and taps the back of Neil’s hand lightly.

Neil glances over at him. Wordlessly, he offers up his hand. Andrew takes it, tugs it over his lap. Sir huffs and squirms out of the way, hopping off the couch and slinking off in the direction of the bedroom. Andrew bends Neil’s fingers and folds them gently, as if he hasn’t already memorized the shape and feel of them. He traces the lines of Neil’s palm, the scars on his knuckles. He finds calluses on Neil’s fingers, the slight crookedness to his left ring finger and pinky from past injury. Neil’s hand is thinner than his own, but they’re strong. Steady. Andrew grips Neil’s hand with both of his. Neil lets him.

Eventually, he lets go. He retreats into his blanket and stares blankly at the screen. He’s seen this documentary before. One of his late-night binges when insomnia was a better alternative than whatever waited for him when he closed his eyes. The heat of Neil’s hands lingers underneath his fingertips like phantom pain. He tries to concentrate on that, on the steady rhythm of Neil’s breathing beside him.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. Neil is quiet with him, but he stays. He stays.

Andrew counts the unwavering beats of his pulse until the numbness slowly but surely evaporates.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

For once, Neil is still asleep when Andrew blinks awake.

Sunlight streams in from the half-closed blinds, spilling across Neil’s bare skin, illuminating his scars and muscles in all their sleep-soft glory. His hair is on fire. There are a few hickeys scattered across his collarbones. Marks Andrew left, marks Neil chose to wear. He’s not as breathtaking as he is when he’s awake and alert with blue eyes carefully examining everything around him like he’s still learning the hang of this living thing, but he’s beautiful just the same.

Half-asleep Andrew is a little too honest, sometimes.

It doesn’t take long for Neil to follow Andrew into the world of the waking. He blinks at the sunlight, and then frowns. His eyes find Andrew’s even as he yawns wide.

“Missed my run,” he mutters.

“Hm.”

“G’morning.”

“Hm.”

Neil’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. His curls are a mess, splayed across his pillow and flopping over his forehead. He looks like a child. The lazy smile he aims at Andrew is no help.

“Staring,” Neil says predictably.

Andrew doesn’t bother replying. He lifts a hand, waits for Neil to nod, and drops his fingers at the curve of Neil’s neck where it meets his shoulder. He feels rather than sees Neil’s little shiver. Taking his time, Andrew traces the scar there down to the one across his chest, following its trail to the damaged skin under Neil’s ribs, slipping down to the raised lines on his stomach, skimming along to the slashes below his navel. Goosebumps rise across Neil’s skin, but his eyes remain on Andrew’s face. His breathing is even. Trusting. Pliant and surrendering to Andrew’s exploration like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Hey,” Neil says softly, “what are you thinking about?”

“What to eat for breakfast,” Andrew deadpans.

Neil’s lips quirk up. “We could go for brunch.”

“You need to stop talking to Nicky.”

His laughter is more of a huff than anything. Andrew’s thumb is rubbing small circles at Neil’s hip. He doesn’t want to pull away. So he doesn’t.

“Andrew,” Neil says suddenly. He hasn’t moved, but the look in his eyes says he wants to. He keeps his arms sprawled loosely on the mattress between them.

“Neil.”

“Yes or no?”

Andrew hums. His hand stills. He presses his palm against the jut of Neil’s hipbone. “Yes,” he mumbles. “Just kissing.”

“Just kissing,” Neil agrees. He smiles crookedly, and it’s annoying because it’s a stupid smile and yet he manages to make it look good somehow. So Andrew shifts forwards and kisses it off him.

They keep their lower halves apart. The comforter is a tangled mess at their waist. Neil’s hands hook onto Andrew’s shirt and Andrew slips his own hand up to cup the back of Neil’s neck. Low, simmering heat pools in his belly; he’s in no hurry to move. He presses his lips against Neil’s and tries to taste the sunshine in Neil’s grin.

When it starts to be too much, Andrew tugs at Neil’s hair and pulls back. Neil goes willingly, blue eyes hazy with pleasure as they blink at him. His cheeks are flushed. Andrew brushes a thumb along the burn scar on his cheekbone.

“I want waffles,” Andrew decides.

Neil rolls his eyes.

Mornings like this aren’t so bad.

 

 

[ ]

 

 

It’s two-thirteen in the morning and Andrew wants to set the world on fire. Or stab something. Whatever is faster.

He slams the cupboard shut after coming up empty. Kevin had polished off the last of their liquor the last time he crashed at their place. He’s not a miserable alcoholic anymore, but he still has a penchant for drinking everyone under the table. Andrew should have thought to stock up on his last late night ice cream run.

He hasn’t slept in days. Nights like this, it comes and goes. He knows it better than anybody. Recovery isn’t a linear process. Bee’s drilled that in his head, Renee had chanted it like her personal motto, and Neil had needed to hear it more than once, too. It doesn’t make it any easier.

The thing is, he’s fine. Not in the Neil-Josten-I’m-Fine kind of way, but really: he’s made a name for himself in a sport he might slightly care about, he takes care of two healthy cats that treat him with affection even when he’s not feeding them, he has a place to return to at the end of the day and someone to leave a light on for him. He’s safe, and Neil’s safe, and that’s all that he could ever make himself ask for. So the nightmares can fuck off.

Except when they don’t. Like now. Andrew leans against the kitchen sink and goes through his breathing exercises.

“‘Drew?” Neil says from the doorway. He hadn’t gone to bed like Andrew told him to. Of course not. A busybody who can’t leave enough alone for his own good, that guy is.

“Neil,” Andrew says through gritted teeth.

“Hey. What do you need?”

Andrew tilts his head back and considers. He turns. Neil is watching him patiently. He’s drowning in that hoodie, stolen from Boyd or Kevin or maybe Allison, and he looks both the fresh-faced nineteen year old Andrew should have walked away from and the almost-thirty year old that Andrew will always find his way home to.

Stepping around Neil, Andrew grabs the car keys and tosses it at him. “Let’s go for a drive,” he says.

The roads are empty with only street lights to keep them company. Neil climbs into the driver’s seat, picks a direction, and goes. Andrew curls up in the passenger seat, tilts his head against the window, and watches the night fly by. The radio is a low hum. Neil steers them through the sleeping neighbourhoods and onto the freeway. The lights blur together, stretching onwards into a liminal sort of tranquility. The sway of the car and the steady murmur of the engine lulls Andrew into a nebulous sort of security.

Somewhere along the way, Andrew’s mind quiets and stills. Somewhere along the way, his eyes fall shut, and he allows himself to drift. Somewhere along the way, sleep finally claims him, and Andrew doesn’t fight.

He wakes up some time later, groggy and uncertain where he is, but strangely unconcerned. The engine is off, the car dim and cooling. Neil sits beside him, hands loose in his lap. He’s staring through the windshield at the river, watching the lights in the distance reflect off the dark waters.

“How long?” Andrew says, voice rough with sleep.

“I drove for an hour and a half,” Neil says. “We’ll have to stop for gas on the way back.”

Andrew grunts. He blinks slowly at the empty parking lot.

“You slept,” Neil observes.

“Congrats, genius.”

“Did you know that would help?”

Andrew shrugs. “It’s not practical.”

Neil chews on his lip. Andrew pokes him in the cheek to get him to stop. “Do you want to stay out here a bit?”

They’re the only ones out here. The road is a ways off behind them, the waters a soothing backdrop for the end of the world. The only two left in the universe, and Andrew wouldn’t mind a damn bit.

He unlocks the door and steps out. He reaches into the backseat to drag out a spare blanket, then gestures for Neil to follow. They climb up onto the hood of the car, not as flexible as they used to be, but they make it work. Neil’s chest is sturdy and warm against his back. Andrew tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket as Neil hooks his chin over his shoulder.

“Cozy?” Neil says cheekily.

Andrew turns and bites lightly at his jaw. Neil’s laugh reverberates through his bones. He tilts his head back and stares up at the stars.

He’s always known he was a tiny, insignificant thing. There’s nothing more humbling than looking up at the constellations—something about staring the universe in the face makes you suddenly all the more aware of just how mortal you are. Just a speck, soon to be blown away in the sands of time.

But, Andrew thinks as Neil’s lips graze the side of his neck, if he is but stardust waiting to be dissolved, if being allowed to keep these pockets of stolen moments with this collapsing supernova of a boy is part of the messy hand that fate has dealt him—then maybe, Andrew thinks, maybe he doesn’t mind at all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i keep making neil skip his morning runs, i feel like i'm committing a crime
> 
> be gentle with yourself when you can. you deserve it. and if you can't find it in you to believe that sometimes, that's okay. i'll believe in it enough for the both of us.
> 
> find me crying about andrew fucking minyard @puddingcatbae on tumblr/twitter!!


End file.
